Exercise: the private pastime

MY partner bought me an ab-roller for our anniversary. I know, I know. How could he be so insensitive?

But actually, I requested it. After all, I knew I was never going to buy one myself.

That would be too big an admission, wouldn’t it?

So, he bought me one. It really is the gift that keeps on giving.

When I first opened it I thought — at last, I’m on my way to trim, taut and terrific-ness.

But when I first lay inside the unusual contraption, it was insistent on pulling my hair.

Thinking it was a small price to pay for a flat stomach, I persevered. For a couple of weeks, anyway.

Now it sits in the spare room, guilt-tripping me every time I see it. I have used it several times, but since its location is not along a main thoroughfare, I don’t think about it very often.

The other night I decided I would drop my shyness and do a few crucnches in front of the tele.

I had completed just one when I heard a laugh from the hallway.

My partner had seen me — replete in my pyjamas, grunting out some sit-ups — and obviously found it quite amusing.

He took up a vantage point on the couch and became my instructor — “Give me one more. Come on, fatty.” At this point I stopped and pouted.

Perhaps some background information is required here — before we all grab our pitchforks and hunt down the man.

You see, my partner and I have a habit of teasing each other affectionately.

We call each other fat, stupid, stinky — whatever the occasion requires.

So, my caring partner thought he was merely continuing this tradition.

Alas, I told him “it’s not nice to call a girl fat when she’s in her ab-roller”. But even I couldn’t help realising the absurdity of the situation and got the giggles.

Whoever thought an ab-roller would bring so much controversy to our household? If only the flat stomach was as simple.

But it seems witnessing me in the throes of any physical exertion is cause for comment at our place.

Taking the dogs for a walk by the creek last week, we decided to have an impromptu cricket match.

My dog makes for a great mid-off fielder. On the one occasion she didn’t see where the ball had disappeared to, I raced her for it.

“Look, Peta’s running!” exclaimed Mr I-Don’t-Know-What’s-Good-For-Me.

Well, pointing it out is hardly incentive to make me run more, is it?

I explained this to my partner who — mildly perplexed — replied: “But you hardly ever ran before I said that comment, what was your excuse then?”

Hmm, I could have cited teenage petulance, or being too ladylike, or poor bra support. Any of these reasons would have been valid.

But, I decided, there was a bigger issue at hand. Any potential running in the future could be thwarted by this incident.

I had to make him see that certain observations ought to be kept to one’s self. After all, maybe one day I will want to go for a jog.

Okay, maybe I just wanted him to be sorry for pointing out my obvious flaws. I can’t look that silly, can I?

On second thoughts, don’t answer that.

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